


Teach Me to Live

by KChan88



Series: She Was Bound to Love You [12]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Bisexual Female Character, Bisexual!Christine, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, Genderbending, Girls Kissing, Kissing, Lesbian Character, Lesbian!Raoul, Mild Sexual Content, Period-Typical Homophobia, Rule 63, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:41:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23971738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KChan88/pseuds/KChan88
Summary: What if Raoul de Chagny was a woman?A series featuring the major events (and a few things in-between) from the Phantom of the Opera, with a gender-bent, lesbian Raoul (and a bisexual Christine). ALW based, with Leroux elements.Scene 8: Christine and Philippe worry for Raoul's safety. As anxiety mounts, Raoul and Christine lose themselves in each other. Christine goes to see her father, looking for a way to move past her old teacher and the grief that has long kept her in the shadows.Except, someone's waiting for her, and that someone has been watching.(Or The Graveyard, pt. 1).
Relationships: Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Series: She Was Bound to Love You [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1627735
Comments: 11
Kudos: 28





	Teach Me to Live

**Author's Note:**

> I have recently become re-obsessed with some of the original lyrics from Music of the Night, so you'll see reference to those here!

Raoul goes to retrieve her violin after supper so she might play them some music. Christine’s on strict orders to rest her voice aside from rehearsal, and given Monsieur Reyer’s anxiety, she won’t deny him. She’s happy to listen to Raoul play without singing along, in any case. She could use the music, tonight.

“I know it’s more reasonable for you to stay in the flat until this ordeal is over, given the proximity to the opera,” Philippe says, his voice sounding far away. “But I hope you’ll move in shortly after it’s over, Christine. Raoul says you want to take a few weeks away from the opera once this… _performance_ is through?”

He lands on the word _performance_ like he might mean _torture_ , not because he doesn’t like theater, but because he’s been worried about them. Despite their unsure beginnings, Philippe warmed up quickly to Christine once he realized she was interested in something long-term with Raoul, and not toying with his sister’s heart.

“Yes,” Christine answers, smiling at him and trying to force thoughts of her encounter with Erik from her mind. She plans to tell Raoul once they’re back in the flat, but she’s dreading it. “I’m looking forward to it.” Feeling brave, she reaches for the comte’s hand, pleased when his fingers tighten around her own, even if he looks a little surprised. “Thank you, Philippe. For accepting me into your family. I can’t tell you what it means.”

“Oh, now…” Philippe waves away the gratitude, a blush creeping into his cheeks as he runs a finger over his fair mustache. “I’ve not seen Raoul so happy in a long time. She’s so endearingly dreamy-headed, but I think you ground her. She’s…she tries to pretend things don’t bother her, the way people talk, but she’s the sweetest person alive despite the brashness and our social circle can be…harsh. Anyhow…” he presses her hand tight, and tears spring to Christine’s eyes. “I’m very glad to have you.” He pauses, looking at her in a way that betrays his concern. “I am worried about the two of you, and this opera ghost. Raoul’s so…” he smiles, looking a bit teary himself. “Well. Apt to run headlong into a situation.”

“I’m going to do whatever I can to protect her, Philippe,” Christine says, the words spilling out of her mouth without permission, laying bare her vulnerabilities about the situation. “I promise.”

“Sweet girl.” Philippe presses a kiss to Christine’s knuckles before letting go of her hand. “I hope to protect you both. I’m sorry you have to go on, with this dreadful opera. But I know Raoul is working closely with the police, carefully, with Monsieur Andre and Monsieur Firmin although…”

“Firmin is less helpful?” Raoul cuts in, striding back into the room. “He has been behaving better, but I still vastly prefer Andre.” She tilts her head. “What were you two talking about?”

Philippe winks at Christine. “How terribly rash you are, my dear.”

Raoul shoves at her brother’s arm before blowing Christine a kiss and drawing the bow across her violin, Gustave Daae’s violin, sweet, familiar notes floating into the air. Not strange. Not frightening, just music that Christine’s father’s taught the love of her life one night by the shore.

She revels in it, and she loves it more than anything she might have heard deep beneath the opera house that night so many months ago. 

* * *

When they reach the little flat—given everything lately with Erik, Raoul almost never sleeps at home, right now—Raoul asks Christine the question Christine doesn’t want to be asked almost immediately.

“Christine,” she says, undoing her long braid, a flash of irritation passing across her face when the tie holding the braid in place gets stuck. Having spent so much time living with a ladies’ maid, sometimes Christine wonders if Raoul knows anything about doing her own hair. The sighs she usually hears coming from Marie indicate otherwise. “Did something happen at rehearsal you haven’t told me? You were quiet at supper.”

Christine prolongs answering, gesturing at Raoul to come sit on the loveseat, the one they read in, so she might get the knots out. She picks up the brush, Raoul’s shoulders visibly relaxing. Raoul’s hair is so unlike her own, straight where hers is curly, gold where hers is chestnut. It hangs down nearly to Raoul’s waist, and Christine loves running her fingers through the long, soft strands. She undoes the knot and brushes out the waves the braid left behind, and to Raoul’s credit, she does give Christine a moment or two before she asks again.

“Christine,” Raoul says, a little impatient but still deeply kind. “Talk to me, please? You’re doing that sort of thing you do when you don’t want talk about something and delay.”

Christine sucks in a breath, but she doesn’t stop her work. “I saw him. Erik.”

Raoul jolts, spinning around on the loveseat so that Christine’s forced to put the brush down. “What? Christine I…” she runs a hand over her face. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Christine arches one eyebrow. “Are you going to tell me you wouldn’t have stormed right in there?”

Raoul crosses her arms over her chest. “Fair, I suppose. What she he say?”

Christine thinks back to the dark dressing room, trying to sort out what he _did_ say, exactly. “Nothing terribly new. He spoke of Don Juan, and how he expected me to do well and he…threatened you. Not…directly exactly, but it was what he meant. And I…” she looks into Raoul’s eyes, and Raoul softens immediately. “I told him I loved you. He left, after that.”

Raoul puts the back of her hand against Christine’s cheek. “You don’t have to do things on your own, like that.”

“And you don’t have to protect me, all the time,” Christine protests. “I want to protect you, too.”

“I know,” Raoul whispers, drawing her hand away with a sheepish smile. “I know you do. I…I don’t want you to think that _I_ think you can’t do things on your own, but this is so dangerous, and I don’t want you hurt and I…” Raoul’s fist clenches on the sofa. “The thought of him alone with you, when I think of those lyrics in Don Juan I just…the thought of him even _thinking_ of touching you…I know it’s Piangi, but they’re still his words. His thoughts about you, on paper.”

There’s quiet rage in Raoul’s voice. Perhaps even a little bit of jealousy. Christine can’t blame her, not with the words in that score. If only Erik had remained her teacher, and not given credence to these other thoughts, this obsession, things might have been different.

But they aren’t.

He wants her in a way she doesn’t want him, and he’s determined to let the world know it, to drag her down to his underworld. She doesn’t _think_ he’d hurt her physically, but then…well his anger is something else. She can’t trust it.

“I’m sorry.” Raoul looks up, a few tears glistening in her eyes. “I’m not the one who has to go through it. You are. I want there to be another way. I _wish_ there was another way.”

“You have to watch,” Christine says. “I’m not sure which is worse.”

Christine wants to cry. They should be celebrating. They should be joyful. They should be planning something other than an opera to trap a ghost that won’t stop haunting them. It’s hard enough, that the world won’t let them openly share their love, and to add this to it…

She thinks of her old teacher’s eyes in the dark. She thinks of that manic glint that said _you are mine_. She shivers, and she worries again over how this will all end.

If, a few weeks from now, she’s forced to choose something, she’ll choose Raoul’s life. She’ll choose Raoul’s life like Raoul has chosen her happiness, her safety, from the moment they met again in the dressing room. Maybe she’ll be snatched from Raoul. Maybe she won’t. For now, they’re together, and she won’t lose a moment. She’ll have this, whatever happens when she takes the stage for Don Juan. She doesn’t want to think, anymore. She just wants to be here, with Raoul.

She takes Raoul’s hands, intertwining their fingers. She doesn’t want to grieve Raoul before she’s even lost her. She just wants to live.

“Kiss me,” she says, softly, with so much feeling it makes her shake.

Raoul studies Christine’s face, that dark gold hair long and loose around her shoulders, those blue eyes glimmering in the faint moonlight spilling in through the window. Christine’s breath catches in her chest. Raoul is _beautiful_ and Raoul loves _her_ , and it’s all such a miracle and she wants Raoul now more than ever, if it’s even possible. Now, at the edge of their salvation, or perhaps their destruction.

That’s yet to be decided.

“Kiss me, Raoul,” Christine repeats, letting go of one of Raoul’s hands to draw the curtains closed. “Please.”

Raoul does, and there’s so much in it when their lips meet. They’re young and they’re in pain and they’re afraid, and all they want in the world is to be together. To be safe. To be happy. It’s not so much to ask, is it?

Christine hasn’t been happy for a long time. Now she’s so _close_ , so close to doing something more than just surviving, and all that gold is under threat from a shadow.

For just a fleeting, terrifying moment, she thinks she sees that shadow through the tiny slit of window that isn’t covered by the curtains, but it’s gone as soon as she looks again.

Even when he’s not really here, Erik is following them.

For the first time, despite all her compassion, despite the memories, she feels a tiny ounce of hatred for her old teacher.

Raoul kisses her long and deep, and Christine returns it with nothing less than fire, tugging Raoul’s jacket off in the process. She doesn’t feel shy about this, anymore, she loves Raoul too much for it, and there’s something more, tonight, even if she can’t define it. She only knows she feels it. She slips her arms around Raoul’s neck, and Raoul, a good four inches taller, stands and picks her up, Christine’s legs wrapped around her waist. They keep kissing as Raoul carries Christine across the floor, both of them laughing breathlessly when they knock into the small dining table before half-tumbling onto the bed.

After, as they lay with the sheets twisted around them, Christine runs a finger up and down Raoul’s bare arm, loving her so much she might burst with it.

“I’ve never loved anyone like I love you,” Raoul whispers, shivering a little at the touch. “Thank you. For _seeing_ me, and not just thinking me a strange, silly girl.”

Christine shifts so that her head is on Raoul’s shoulder. “Thank you,” she says. “For being willing to rescue me.”

Raoul’s face goes a little dark. “I’m not sure I’ve done that yet.”

“It’s not just up to you. It’s up to me, too. We’ll make it through.”

Christine not sure if she believes that. She wants to. She’s trying to, every day. But if Raoul can’t defeat Erik’s schemes, it won’t be because she didn’t try her hardest. It will be because the Opera Ghost is an indefatigable opponent.

“I say we go to the sea for a while, when this is over.” Raoul leans over, tucking one of Christine’s curls behind her ear. “What do you say?”

“Yes,” Christine replies, taking hold of that future with her fingertips and believing in it even as anxiety makes her stomach churn. “I say yes.”

Raoul gives her one last sleepy kiss, and a few minutes later she’s out, leaving Christine to her thoughts. Christine runs a hand down Raoul’s warm cheek, knowing, suddenly just where she needs to go when the sun comes up tomorrow.

The cemetery.

She needs to put Erik behind her. She needs to let go. She needs to get through this and hold on tight to the future that’s waiting for her, and learn not just to survive, but to live, too.

She needs to speak to her father. 

* * *

Raoul sleeps like the dead. She’s been plagued by nightmares since her encounter with Erik after the Masquerade, so Christine’s glad to see her sleeping peacefully, for once, because she knows what bad dreams are like. She slips out of bed, dresses, and leaves a note.

_Went to the cemetery. I’ll be back later this morning. I love you._

She brushes a stray hair out of Raoul’s face, wanting to kiss her before she goes, but fearing she’ll wake her.

Raoul won’t like this, she won’t like Christine going alone, but whatever Raoul’s fears—and her own—of Erik leaving the confines of the opera house to follow them, right now they’re doing everything he wants, and she doesn’t think he’d leave at random. He’d have to know where the little flat was, where the cemetery was, and she thinks she’ll be safe, in the early morning light.

Erik only comes out in the dark, after all, and she needs some time alone with her thoughts. With her father.

She steps outside into the street, and she does hear a small clatter nearby, but when she looks behind her, in front of her, around the corner, there’s nothing. No one.

“Christine,” she says to herself, shaking her head. “He’s not here.”

She needs to do this. She needs to prove to herself that she can, she…she’s still angry at herself, for falling under Erik’s spell, for needing to be rescued. She shouldn’t be, and the more rational part of her understands that. Raoul’s love, everything her father ever instilled in her, tells her she shouldn’t be.

But sometimes that nasty voice inside her head turns into Erik’s. About how she betrayed him. How she made him believe things and fall in love with her.

She wants to put it in the past. Perhaps she’s not ready to blame her old teacher, yet, even if it is his fault, but she’s ready to start her life, she’s ready to try and think ahead, instead of constantly worrying over whether she’ll have this new life torn from her hands. She probably _will_ worry about that until this is all over, but perhaps she can stop giving it so much space in her mind, because she has to get through this performance.

She walks to the cemetery, fingering the edge of the old red scarf she wears around her neck, the old material keeping her safe in the deep late January cold. The sun’s just rising, yellow-gold bursting into the sky and chasing away the night. The cemetery’s only a mile away, and she stops at a nearby flower shop that’s open, selecting a bouquet of red roses. She smiles, remembering the single red rose Raoul gave her that night in her dressing room, and thinks her father would approve. She pulls her cloak tight around her, jumping a little when the gate gives a sharp, whiny creak as she opens it. There’s a dusting of soft snow on the ground, white and undisturbed, unlike the half-brown mush in the street.

She gazes around at the silent stones marking the dead and steps inside, making for the simple tombstone near the front of the cemetery, _Gustave Daae_ etched into cold marble. She kneels in the snowy grass, putting down the flowers and running her fingers across her beloved father’s name. It should be warm because _he_ was warm, but graves are not warm things, even if her memories are nothing but. It’s strange, how graveyards are such quiet, cold things, when the people they’re meant to memorialize were so full of life.

“Hello, Papa,” she whispers. “I need your help.”

There’s no answer, of course. No answer except a chilly wind that blows frost-covered leaves across the empty graveyard. She longs for the warmth of her father’s embrace, his smile, the way he always made her feel safe. She was never anyone’s priority, after she lost him, even though she had a smattering of people who loved her, though that still came down to mostly Meg and sometimes Madame Giry, depending on the older woman’s mood. If not for Meg she might have gone made with loneliness, despite all the people around her in the opera house.

She thought she could be safe with Erik, with her teacher, but he was always too much a mystery to engender safety, really, when she looks back. Then Raoul swept back into her life and said _I choose you_ , said _you are safe, we are safe._

Safe until Erik broke it. Erik, who pretended to be her sweet, warm father.

She should have known. She should have seen it. But she can’t blame herself anymore. She needs to move forward.

“I miss you,” she says, letting the tears come. “But I…I think I’m not living up to what you wanted for me because I…I’ve been grieving you so much that I…I forgot how to live. I’m sorry for that, Papa. If you’re out there, please just…show me how. You did it so well even after you lost Mama. Even when we struggled. I…” she rests her hand on the tombstone again. “I hear your violin in my dreams.” She cries harder, but it feels like a relief this time, like all her grief pouring out. “And when I lost you it was like I lost myself, too.”

She jumps when she hears a footstep behind her, the crack of a twig in the snow. She whips around, but there’s nothing.

“I want to try and be happy,” she continues. “I know you wanted me to be, and maybe if I try and live for you, one day I can live for me, too.” She touches one of the red roses “I found Raoul, Papa. And she _loves_ me. And I’m singing in the Paris opera, too, I’m even the star, some nights, but there’s this man and he…he taught me, but he hurt me. Betrayed my trust, and I thought you sent him, until I realized you would never send someone like that. But for a long time, he was what I had, and he made my voice soar and…I need to tell him goodbye.”

There’s another breeze, and Christine likes to imagine it’s a touch warmer. She likes to imagine it’s her father from the beyond. She can do this, can’t she? She can carry the memory of her father, she can carry the grief that will always be a part of her, and still live. She can. She swears she can.

The moment’s interrupted when there’s another sound coming from nearby.

Not a sound.

A voice.

“Wandering child.” It sounds like silk again _._ “So lost. So helpless.”

She squeezes her eyes shut. It isn’t her father. It isn’t. Erik, her teacher, the Phantom has followed her out in broad daylight but how…

Her entire body shivers.

He spied on them through the window of the flat, wasn’t he? She wasn’t imagining things, when she thought she saw a shadow through the crack in the curtains. He was there. He was _there_. Listening to them talk. Watching their kisses and their intimacy. God, what if she’d not thought to draw the curtains last night?

How many times has he spied on them? The flat was supposed to be safe, it was supposed to be…

Vomit crawls up her throat, but the voice doesn’t let up. The voice she knows like she knows herself because it was all she had of him, for years. No physical presence. Just that voice, singing to her in the dark and making promises he didn’t keep, all the while hiding feelings, desires, that she knew nothing of.

“You’ve wandered so far,” the voice says. “Away from me.”

“No,” Christine whispers. She sees him there on the steps to the little chapel when he opens her eyes, his black cloak billowing in the wind and his white mask distinct under the brim of his hat. He looks more human away from the opera, out of place in the morning light, but still seems so much a specter. She has no idea how old he is, she realizes now, and it’s hard to tell with the cape and the mask and the hat. She thinks of the brief glimpse she had of his face when she took the mask off. Forty? Forty-five? Older than her by twenty years, at least. He seemed so sure and so unsure that night when he finally showed himself to her, when he sang until she felt herself slipping away from everything she knew.

The music was always a truth, between them. But she can’t trust the music, because she can’t trust him.

_Dare you trust the music of the night?_ He asked her then, his voice so sad, so lovely.

And every note a lie.

_Close your eyes, for your eyes will only tell the truth, and the truth isn’t what you want to see. In the dark it is easy to pretend, that the truth is what it ought to be._

Those words seem clarifying now, but they felt like a spell as he circled her that night, touching her only lightly, different from the way he seized her wrist the next morning.

He never wanted her to see anything at all. He just wanted her to listen to him. And only him. Not to Raoul. Not to Meg. Not even to her own mind.

The sun rises fully int the early morning sky, dripping fiery orange light down the stone steps he’s standing upon. In his hand, he’s holding a violin. He must have been planning something, when he saw her come out, though she has no idea what.

“Don’t shun me, Christine.” His song is a whisper on the wind, floating toward her like dark magic.

He draws the bow over the violin’s strings, and it feels like a violence, no matter how beautiful the sound. Every note is perfect, because of course it is. He’s a genius. A prodigy.

She’d rather have her father’s laughter as he played, or the tiny errors Raoul makes when she’s nervous.

She starts losing her senses, she’s drawn toward the voice and the music like he’s hypnotizing her and she can’t…

Her mind says _no_ over and over and over again, it beats against her skull, against that voice.

Her soul tugs at her. It tugs her toward memories of her father, memories of her teacher, before he betrayed her. She curls into herself by the gravestone as the voice, the steps, come closer.

“Christine…” that strange, sweet voice asks, without the anger she heard yesterday. “Have you forgotten your angel?”


End file.
